Page 208 of The Last Good Man

I push the door to her office open and make myself comfortable.

I’m early and grateful for spending a few moments alone. The windows are open, and a gentle breeze blows the curtains.

I set my black purse down, run my hand over my bun, and slide onto the couch.

I only spend a second, tense in my gray skirt suit, before I push up and head straight to her desk.

She must be in the back if she hasn’t stepped out.

Regardless of where she is, I follow that pestering voiceinside my headthat nudges me to search her drawers.

The book where I found the piece of paper with his nameis missing.

So, there it goes.I open every drawer and look for his file.There must be a file.

Maybe she’s keeping it separately since this is her pro bono work, and I’m sure there are requirements regarding the paperwork.

There’s no way she doesn’t take notes.

Footsteps ring in front of the building, and her voice mingles with someone else’s before drifting through the air.I straighten and glance out the window.

Holding a brown paper bag, she talks to a man.

Good.

I have a few more seconds left.

Feverishly, I look through the files. No luck.

Sighing, I slam the last drawer closed and look around the room. There is not one unchecked spot.

Disappointed with my fruitless efforts, Ispin around anddo the unthinkable. Wakeher computer.I’m no hacker and don’t expect it to work, but I try to guess her passcode and type in her date of birth.

Stupid, stupid luck.

I gain access and have no time to gloat as her voice inches closer to the entrance.

Where do I look?

If her fascination with him is real, I should find a folder with his name typed in bold letters.

JAX.

There it is.

I double-click and open a file. An anger management plan fills my view. Another file talks abouthisprogress.I needhernotes—her notes, like whenshe’sscribbling down silly stuff about my life.

Her voice moves up the stairs, and the window of opportunity closes. I have no time to check the rest of the files except for one. I grasp one name at the top of the page.

Tim London, and the words following that name…Jax’s father.

That’s it.

I close the file and folder and click on sleep, hoping her computer doesn’t freeze, as mine does sometimes, and crafting a plan to keep her busy in case it does before the screen goes dark.

I dash away from her desk, and she finds me by the door, staring at an old photograph of Manhattan framed and hung on the wall.

“I always get nostalgic when I see this picture,” I say calmly, my arms crossed over my chest.

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